


Sleepless

by sternenblumen



Series: Feb-Whump-Ary 2020 [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Deprivation, Torture, Whump, feb-whump-ary 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22859716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: Porthos doesn’t know anything about the Ambassador, and he just wants to sleep.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & d'Artagnan & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Series: Feb-Whump-Ary 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643296
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46
Collections: Feb-Whump-Ary





	Sleepless

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of @yuckwhump‘s Feb-whump-ary, Day 16 - sleep deprivation.

The hit in his back made him stumble forward and almost pitch down onto his knees, but a rough hand grabbed the rope binding his arms behind his back and wrenched him back. “What did we say?” the man said next to Porthos’ ear.

“No sleepin’,” he mumbled. “No … sleepin’.” His tongue felt too large for his mouth, and he swallowed dryly, though it didn’t offer any relief. He blinked gritty eyes at the other figure that stepped in front of him, outlined by the torches flooding his small cell with light.

“Not until you’ve answered our questions, at least,” the man said, his voice and whole demeanour so much gentler than the one behind him, holding him in place. “Once you do, you can sleep to your heart’s content. Don’t you want that?”

Porthos blinked again and then shook his head. “Not … gonna say anythin’,” he slurred. A part of him screamed at him that this was the wrong answer. Didn’t he want to sleep? Yes. Yes. Sleep was a distant memory by now. How long had it been? He had no idea. The cell was alight with torches the whole time, the men coming and going too irregularly to establish any pattern. But it was important that he did not say anything. He remembered as much. Even if he wasn’t quite so sure anymore _what_ he shouldn’t say anything about.

“Where is the meeting taking place?” the man before him asked as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Porthos shook his head.

“How many people are accompanying the ambassador?” the man continued.

What ambassador? Porthos shook his head.

“Who will meet with him?”

Porthos shook his head. If only he would stop asking him stupid questions, maybe he could sleep then … His eyelids drooped.

Another hit in his kidneys had his eyes snap open and him gasping in pain. “I’m … I’m not sleepin’!” he protested. Was that why he was being hit?

“You can sleep in a minute,” the man before him soothed. “Just one question, and you can get an hour of sleep, doesn’t that sound good? Two, and you can get two hours, think of that.” He sounded excited, as if two hours of sleep was Paradise. It actually was. He was so confused, in pain, his head aching abominably, and they kept hitting him … That wasn’t the most confusing part, he was quite sure he’d gone through something similar before. But at least then he’d been left alone from time to time. He had been allowed to sleep.

Not with this bunch of bastards, though. They kept prodding him awake, and once he no longer minded the pinpricks and kicks against the back of his legs, they’d started in on the beating in earnest. How ironic, that he was almost relieved at how normal that felt? Not that anything else felt normal because his skin was itching, he was hot and cold at the same time, and his sight was wavering.

“Don’t you want to sleep?” the man before him asked, drawing his attention again.

“Yes,” Porthos breathed, latching onto the words. Sleep sounded heavily, so much so that he could feel tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He was so tired …

“Then come on, what use is it to you to annoy us? Just one question,” the man cajoled. He was so nice, and it sounded so easy. Just one question … Where could be the harm in that? If only he remembered why it seemed so important not to say anything …

“Where will the meeting take place?”

“What meeting?” Porthos slurred.

“The ambassador. He’s meeting Louis’ representative,“ someone hissed behind him, and Porthos jerked violently. Where had that man come from? Rough hands yanked him back again, and he bit back a moan at the ropes chafing his oversensitive skin, at how his arms seemed to stretch longer than they should be able to.

“Don’ know about any o’ that,” he said, blinking desperately at the man before him, willing him to believe it. He didn’t know anything right now, it seemed, it was almost a wonder he remembered his own name. He was Porthos, right? He was Porthos. Porthos du Vallon, of the King’s Musketeers. Porthos, son of Marie-Cesette, friend of Flea and Charon, brother of Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan. Wait, was he still friends with Charon? There was something there …

“Your friend killed me,” Charon’s voice said. He swivelled his head around, and there he was, his old friend, a large bloodstain covering his side. “I saved your worthless hide, and that’s how they repaid me.”

Porthos blinked at him stupidly. Right, Aramis had killed him, because Charon had … He had …

A fist in his ribs interrupted his recollections and made him curl forward, only to be yanked upright again. “Speak, you dog!” the man behind him snarled.

The man in front of him was still smiling pleasantly but his voice had more of an edge to it. “I’m sure you know something,” he said. “But I can see we’re not getting anywhere right now. So, you know, if you don’t have anything to say, I’ll let you think about it a bit … Maurice will keep you company, so you won’t waste time sleeping, eh?”

With an almost polite nod, he left the cell, closing the door behind him. Charon laughed. “At least, I get to see this. Maybe dying was worth it for this.”

Porthos growled at him. “Let me be, I’m tryin’ to sleep here.” But a painful jank at his bindings made him almost fall backwards as the man behind him said: “No, you won’t.”

* * *

“Athos!”

At the hissed sound of his name, barely more than an exhale on d’Artagnan’s breath, Athos sped up to catch up with him. Their youngest was pressed up against the wall next to a cell door, his head turned to the side as he listened for something. Through a small window in the door, bright light spilt into the dim corridor. Athos frowned at the strange sight - most of the time, prison cells were not exactly kept well-lit.

He sidled up to d’Artagnan’s aide and was able to hear what he was listening to - someone was talking inside the cell. “You know, once I get off duty, there’s a wonderful bed waiting for me. With a freshly stuffed mattress and a warm blanket. D’you remember how that feels?”

There was a smack like flesh on flesh and a pained grunt, and d’Artagnan flinched almost violently next to him. Athos extended an arm to touch d’Artagnan’s, willing him to stay still just a moment longer.

“I don’t know what it’s supposed to help, anyway,” the voice continued. “You probably really don’t know anything, eh, do you, mutt?”

Another smack, and Athos grit his teeth. “Athos,” d’Artagnan breathed, all but pleading.

“Can you see inside?” he asked softly. The Gascon shifted, turning his face until his eyes were at the small opening, and he blinked at the light. After a moment, he turned away again, blinking to adjust his sight again. “One guard, can’t see any weapons,” he reported. “Porthos … he looks really bad, Athos,” he added.

Athos cocked his head, considering, then nodded. With a short gesture, he sent d’Artagnan to the other side of the door, then moved to the other side of the corridor, crouching down with sword and pistol at the ready so he would be able to move the moment d’Artagnan got the door open.

The young swordsman reached for the bolt and hesitated shortly. “Not locked,” he murmured, exchanging a confused look with his mentor. Maybe they didn’t think it necessary due to the presence of the guard within the cell … Athos shrugged and mentioned for d’Artagnan to go on. With a violent pull, the door sprang open, and Athos rose and was in the cell with two steps, rushing at the guard who stood in the middle of the room and looked at him with an almost comical expression of surprise on his face. Seeing no weapon on him, Athos dropped his own and instead ploughed into him and drove him against the opposite wall, violently bouncing the man’s head against the wall. He withdrew, and the man crumpled down to the floor. With an almost satisfied smirk, Athos turned away from him and towards the upright figure of his friend in the middle of the room.

d’Artagnan was already there, stepping towards Porthos with his hands carefully lifted. “Porthos?” he addressed the man cautiously.

Porthos didn’t answer, and Athos frowned. He was awake, that much was clear, standing under his own power, though his hands and legs were bound, his arms drawn cruelly backwards.

d’Artagnan touched a shoulder, and Porthos flinched violently backwards. “I’m awake!” he swore. “Don’t–” But he did not continue, just stared around the room with wide eyes, confused and seemingly scared.

The two Musketeers exchanged a look, and Athos stepped up to his protégé’s side. “It’s alright, Porthos,” he assured him. “We’ll get you out of here. You’re safe now.”

Porthos blinked uncomprehendingly, swaying where he stood. “Yer just sayin’ that. Won’t answer any of yer stupid questions,” he mumbled.

“Porthos, it’s us!” d’Artagnan pleaded, slightly desperately. The captured Musketeer closed his eyes and shook his head. “Isn’t you. Charon isn’t him either.”

More looks were exchanged between the other two men, well past worried now. “Has he lost his mind?” the Gascon whispered. Why was he talking about his former friend whose death was almost a year past now?

Athos could do no more than shake his head, just as lost as the young swordsman. “Let’s get him out of here,” he decided. “Hopefully, Aramis can figure out what’s wrong.” He wished that the medic was with them right now but under the circumstances it had seemed prudent to leave the one with the sharpest vision outside to guard their back.

d’Artagnan nodded and moved behind Porthos to cut his bonds, murmuring words of comfort to calm him, even if it seemed as if Porthos was lost in a world of his own and barely registered that he was spoken to. Athos stepped close and held onto Porthos’ upper arms to stabilise him until d’Artagnan was finished. The contact drew another round of assurances from him: “‘m awake, ‘m awake, no need to hit me.” Athos bit back a curse. Whatever torture these men had devised, it had been quite effective at making him suffer, it seemed, though he did not for one moment believe Porthos had divulged anything under it.

He flinched and tried to pull away when they pulled his arms over their shoulders to lead him out of there, but weak as he was, it was not hard to hold onto him. Caught in his stupor, they were almost carrying, though he was aware enough to try and walk, and he kept talking, mumbling incoherently. Charon’s name was in there again a few times, and most distressingly, so were several attempts at protesting that he was awake, and pleading to let him sleep. Athos wished he would just pass out but he did not, lids at half-mast but snapping open every few seconds to look around, wide-eyed and confused. Their attempts to calm him down, insisting that he was safe and could sleep if he wanted to, did not seem to reach him.

Finally, they made it outside, and Athos gave a low whistle. Only a moment later, Aramis’ figure coalesced from the shadows near the wall of the house, and he came over swiftly. “Everything’s quiet,” he reported. “How is he?” His fingers were twitching with the obvious need to check on Porthos but he knew that they needed to put some distance between themselves and the captors, at least get back to the place where they had left the horses.

“Nothing’s broken, just bruises, I think,” Athos replied. “But … I think they kept him awake the whole time.”

“He’s delirious,” d’Artagnan added, his voice hoarse. “Doesn’t know us and keeps talking nonsense.”

Aramis’ head snapped up, eyes widening in alarm. He took another look at Porthos while keeping pace next to Athos. With a deep breath, he took off his hat and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Sleep deprivation - that’s insidious,” he murmured.

“What does it mean for him?” Athos asked, trying to keep his voice level though Aramis’ reaction ratcheted his concern further up.

Aramis bit his lip, then shrugged. “I don’t have much experience with it - from what I know, sleep is pretty much the only thing that helps,” he explained. “There are a lot of things that can go wrong, though. Is he feverish?”

“He’s somewhat warm,” d’Artagnan said dubiously.

Aramis nodded distractedly. Making up his mind, he said: “I’ll go ahead to the horses, make up a bedroll and prepare what I can. We need to get him lying down and keep his temperature down. You get him there, right?”

Athos nodded. “Of course,” he told him. “Go do what you think necessary.” Even if it was only helpful to easing Aramis’ anxious mind, he would never get between the medic and what he believed to be necessary to care for a patient. Well, within reason - he had to do so to keep Aramis from running himself into the ground in the name of caring for others quite a few times.

The medic went ahead, and by the time they had made their way to the small clearing, he had set up camp, one bedroll waiting for Porthos who was still stubbornly, impossibly awake - or at least in a state that you could not call sleep, startling awake a few moments after he had seemingly drifted off and trying to walk on unsteady legs repeatedly, even though they were mostly carrying him.

They lay him down, and he went pliantly enough but then shot upwards again. “‘m not sleeping!” he assured them again.

Athos and d’Artagnan stepped back, giving Aramis room to work but standing ready to render any assistance he might need. If there was anyone who could get through to Porthos in his current state, it was his closest friend. Or at least Athos hoped so, since the delirious confusion holding Porthos in its grip was scaring him more than he cared to admit. Next to him, d’Artagnan fidgeted nervously, his gaze fixed on Porthos and Aramis.

The medic ran his hands down his friend’s body, checking methodically for injuries. When he had finished his exam, he told the others over his shoulder: “Nothing major, luckily - two of his ribs seem to be bruised, I’d strap those later. He’s running a fever but it’s not dangerously high yet. We just need to get him to rest.” Turning back to his patient, he cupped the dark face in a gentle hand and said: “Porthos, you are safe. No one will hurt you now. You can sleep. Please, sleep.”

Dark eyes blinked sluggishly up at him.”Charon?” Porthos asked, and the other man barely managed to avoid flinching.

“No, Charon is not here,” Aramis replied patiently. “You know me, _mon ami_. You know us, and we are here. No harm will come to you, I swear.”

The large Musketeer looked around, searching for something. “Charon was just here,” he murmured. “He … Wasn’t him, wanted me to stay awake. Sleeping hurt.” He sounded so lost, so helpless in a way none of the others had ever heard him.

“No one will hurt you,” Aramis repeated. “Porthos, please. Rest. Let go.” He stroked through the dark curls, looking around for the others with his own helplessness in his eyes.

“Maybe we should just knock him out?” Athos suggested in a low voice as he came closer and knelt down on Porthos’ other side, taking his hand and squeezing it. d’Artagnan hovered close by worriedly for a moment before he gathered himself and got down on his knees next to Aramis, laying a gentle hand on Porthos’ chest, careful not to restrain or exert any pressure.

Aramis frowned, then shook his head. “As a last resort, maybe. I’d still rather not hurt him further … Especially when he’s already frightened and confused.”

The sudden stillness under his hand in Porthos’ hair made him look down, and he met Porthos’ eyes. For the first time since Athos and d’Artagnan had pulled him from the cell, he seemed to have found a moment of calm - his gaze was still far away, not recognising them, but less frantic, less fractured. Aramis held his breath as he carefully let his fingers run over Porthos’ head, only taking another to voice a whispered: “Porthos?”

Porthos blinked, moved his head, then with a sudden sigh, he leaned into the touch, his fingers giving a weak squeeze to Athos’ hand.

“That’s good, Porthos,” Aramis soothed without stopping his gentle caresses. “Just relax. We got you.” He looked up to meet Athos’ eyes, a slight hopeful smile tugging at his lips. In the end, Porthos knew them.

They stayed that way for who knew how long, talking to him in gentle tones, touching and reassuring him, but it did not matter.

Because in the end, Porthos slept.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll admit, the end is rather abrupt, and the whole thing is rather long and rambly ... I'm not entirely happy with it but it is what it is.
> 
> I hope you like it - as always, I love any kudos, comments, bookmarks, etc., you guys may gift me with :).


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